


Give Me a Hand

by 13thSyndrome



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, JeanMarco Week, M/M, Modern Era, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yoga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thSyndrome/pseuds/13thSyndrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flexibility wasn't really his strong point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Day 4 of JeanMarco Week 2015. The prompts are between Warrior and Call My Name. I chose the Warrior prompt. Did I technically stretch the meaning? Maybe.

He had a general idea of what he was doing, or rather, what he was supposed to be doing.

When Connie asked him if he wanted to come to an advanced hot yoga class with him and his girlfriend, Marco thought it would be fun. Easy, in fact.

He was a pretty healthy guy, and he deemed himself flexible by most people's standards.

Connie did a small victory dance, when he signed up and said he'd come to the next session. His girlfriend, Sasha, was pretty amped up and begun speaking wildly about all the different types of yoga they were going to do together. Marco figured they just really loved yoga and _really_ loved when they got other people to do it too. He wasn't intimidated at all. They said he'd be great at it, a real natural.

His roommate, Annie, was the first to say something a little off-putting.

"You shouldn't do it."

Marco looked up from a book he was reading on understanding the eight limbs of yoga. She was sitting at the shared dining table, mindlessly eating a bowl of oatmeal. Plain oatmeal.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. Don't do it. You won't be able to. "

He set his book down and gave her a reassuring smile.

"You're exaggerating, right? I'll be fine. I pick things up pretty fast--. Ah!"

She zipped across the room and stood over him. He was sitting on his favorite chair, when she shoved her spoon in his face. It still had some food on it.

"Don't overestimate your flexibility," she said, flicking the spoon threateningly, "You don't even stretch before a run."

"Annie, I can take care of myself."

"Don't go. You'll only regret it."

She returned to her seat at the table, and he brushed her words off as overly pessimistic. _She was too serious_ , he thought. Calm again, he picked up his book and read that hot yoga was actually called Bikram yoga. Interesting! He felt like a yogi already.

Yes, Annie must have been wrong.

* * *

  
It was the first day, the first pose, and Marco was already in pain.

"What--. Why didn't I listen to her?" he whispered to himself, voice just a touch wheezy.

The class began with a sitting move, Sukhasana or easy pose. His feet had to touch, and his legs had to rest completely on the floor. This was a simple starting move for everyone. He looked to the right. Sasha and Connie were already in the zone; their breathing was steady. Their eyes were shut.

The problem was that his legs couldn't even touch the floor. He sat awkwardly, trying to push his legs down to no avail. He was very thankful they sat in the back.

Not to mention that it was incredibly hot. He expected it to be warm, cozy even, but not stifling. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck.

 _Gross_ , he thought, looking helplessly at his feet. When he looked back up, the instructor was staring right at him. The man looked a little confused. Marco smiled at him, and he grimaced in return.

He shut his eyes, willing his legs to go down.

"Now, twist the upper half of your body to the right. Pull your shoulders back, look over your shoulder, and place your left hand on your right knee. Keep your other hand behind you. Breathe, and relax deeply. Free your minds of everything that isn't in this room," the instructor said, never taking his eyes off Marco.

He stood up then and quietly made his way to the back. When he came to a stop at his mat, Marco was incredibly red.

It didn't help that he realized the guy was attractive too.

"Your hips aren't very open," he said quietly, while trying to push his legs down.

Marco involuntarily whimpered, and the instructor looked just a touch irritated. He stood up again, addressing the class,

"Release your pose, and twist to the opposite side."

He crouched down, returning his attention to Marco.

"Looks like I'll be doing modified poses today. So, watch me for help," he said.

Mortified, but grateful, Marco spent the remainder of the hour struggling through pose after pose. Connie even tried to help him at some point, but he felt bad enough for wasting the instructor's time. He didn't need to bother anyone else.

One move was particularly difficult for him to master without falling over. Warrior III wasn't even that bad, but Marco had terrible balance. He slammed face-first into the wooden floor after trying to lean forward too far.

Several "Are you okay?"s and gasps made him want to crawl underneath his mat and sweat himself to death.

The instructor came over and watched him get into position a second time.

When he felt himself leaning forward, the man lifted his arms into position. He also tried to balance the poor novice by pressing one of his hands into the small of his back. Adrenaline surged through Marco's spine, when the instructor pressed even harder. It was humiliating to have someone his own age help him like he was an infant learning to walk.

There was something else too.

The physical contact made Marco feel strange, like he already knew the feeling of this man's hand. The familiarity didn't help. In fact, he felt a small jolt shoot from his groin up to his chest.

 _Embarrassing_ , he thought.

Everything went by very slowly after his fall, but he finally finished.

Successfully drenching his clothes, Marco got up from corpse pose and wiped off his mat. Connie and Sasha apologized profusely, not realizing how inflexible he was.

"We shouldn't have--. We should have started you off with a beginner's class, not Bikram. And especially not advanced Bikram--. What were we thinking?" Sasha groaned into her hand.

"Guys, it's fine," Marco said, "I shouldn't have been so cocky about the whole thing."

"How about we treat you to a nice breakfast?" Connie offered, "Where do you want to go?"

Marco smiled at his friends' eagerness to take him out, so he agreed, saying,

"Sure, I'd love to go out, but I'm paying for my own meal. Can you guys wait outside for a couple of minutes? I'd like to talk to our instructor person--. Guy. "

"Oh, Jean?," Connie said, voice low, "You better watch out. That guy is known for having a temper outside of class."

"Okay. I will," he said while rolling up his mat and standing.

They left the room, and Marco was, well, hesitant to bother Jean anymore than he already had. The room emptied out completely, when he approached him.

"Hi. I just--. I wanted to say thanks for today," he begun, "And I'm sorry about taking up so much of your time."

Jean stared at him. Marco took note of his loose shirt and the simple necklace that hung around his neck. His eyes flicked downward for just a moment. It wasn't really the time or place for him to notice, but Jean had a very nice body. Embarrassed at himself, Marco coughed.

Laughing awkwardly, he smiled at the man. Jean didn't return the smile.

"You've never taken a yoga class before, have you?" he asked, giving the nastiest side-eye Marco had ever seen.

Marco would've paled in an instant, if his body wasn't working overtime to cool him off.

Jean must have noticed the warning look in his eyes that Marco wasn't far off from passing out.

"Here," Jean said, passing him a water bottle, " You need to re-hydrate your body."

"Thank you."

It was quiet. Marco was about to say goodbye when Jean said,

"You know, I've got another class that I teach here. I mean, I have another class that I teach in this room. It's for beginners."

"I really--. I couldn't after all the trouble--."

"Please," he laughed, "You are an angel compared to some of the people who come in here. Although, I haven't had anyone sign up for my Advanced Bikram without having any yoga experience under their belt."

"Well, I'd love to see you again," Marco said, rushing his words, "For yoga, I mean. You're a great instructor, and--. Yeah."

"Uh--. Thank you," Jean said. Marco wasn't sure if the heat finally got to Jean, or if he was blushing.

They both stood there awkwardly.

Jean spoke first.

"Do you--. Fuck. I'm going to regret it if I don't ask. But, uh, do you want to go--."

"MARCO! Are you done yet?" Connie yelled from the door, "Sasha needs to eat!"

"Really, Connie, can you just--. Connie, just give me a couple more minutes," he sighed.

Connie left the room as slowly as possible. Marco gave Jean an apologetic look, but the man was preoccupied, glaring at the closed door.

"I'm really sorry about him. His girlfriend has this very voracious appetite, and--. Yeah, you were saying?"

He still seemed angry. He paused and took a deep breath.

"Okay, I--. What I wanted to say is--. Do I know you from somewhere? You seem really familiar."

"No, I don't think so. "

The room was quiet again.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around," Jean said, looking a little disappointed with himself.

"Yeah."

"Well, bye, um--. What was your name?"

"Marco. Marco Bott."

Something passed over Jean's eyes then. Recognition, perhaps, and then sadness. Marco couldn't really tell.

"See you, Marco. My name is Jean. Jean Kirstein, if you didn't know. Come to my beginner's class, if you want."

When Marco left the room, he smiled to himself. Despite the sore nose and the serious need for some fluids, he didn't regret going.

For once, it seemed that Annie was wrong.


	2. Thank You Very Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bless the human who created under armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've created a Part II for Give Me a Hand since it was requested. Not entirely sure if I should change the rating... Oh, well. I might even be up for writing a third chapter at this point.

It had been a long day after they met, and he felt it was best to end it right.

"Feels nice."

Marco loved showers. He loved the bite of the water. He loved the way the soap skidded across his skin and the simple freshness it left behind. He loved wrapping his fingers in his hair, pretending his hands were someone else's. Most of all, he loved how easy it was to navigate his mind.

Lathering up his chest, Marco spread the suds leisurely, probably focusing too much on the feeling of being touched.

He thought of Jean then, and he'd probably been thinking of him the entire time.

He shook his head, but the man was already in his thoughts.

 _I should get out_ , he thought.

Marco was about to turn off the water, until he looked down.

"Oops," he said, trying to ignore his body.

Marco sighed and mentally asked his roommate to forgive him for taking extra time in the bathroom again.

"Well, it doesn't hurt to de-stress every once in awhile."

 

* * *

  
Less than a week later, Annie readied herself for sleeping.

"Nighttime, " she said, shutting off the light and flipping back the covers of her bed.

She had a very meticulous routine, and she finally managed to have everything in order for the night. Nestled in, her eyes began to close, and she rolled over.

 _Comfortable at last_ , she thought, hoping she would pass out before she heard him.

Munch. Munch. Munch.

 _Oh no_ , she thought.

Her eyes snapped open.

_Marco._

Munch. Munch. Slurp.

She had to put a stop to it.

 

* * *

  
He didn't hear her when she slipped into the kitchen.

Marco promised he'd stop snacking so late, but he had a part-time job in the evenings. Annie hated when he did this, claiming she might as well turn on the garbage disposal to drown him out.

He did feel kind of bad.

 _Last time_ , he thought while stuffing himself with the last bit of "Humanity's Tastiest," his favorite cereal.

Mouth close to bursting, he turned around, and just as he was about to swallow, she stepped into view.

The next thing they knew, cereal was everywhere.

He screamed and dropped his bowl.

"Annie!" he cried, accidentally stepping back into a counter. Milk dribbled down his chin, and he realized he was caught. He was really in for it now.

"You know, Marco," she said, "These nightly scavenges for food need to end."

"I got it," he said quickly, "This is the last time. I swear to you--."

"You said that yesterday."

"Well, I--. I'm really sorry. I'll stop."

"You've been spending way too much time with Connie and Sasha."

"I got it. I got it."

Annie turned on the light and shut the fridge. He had to blink from the sudden brightness.

"You also said that you'd stop taking an hour in the shower every day."

Marco swallowed.

"Listen, I don't know what you're doing in there. I don't want to," she said, voice neutral, "But you need to figure out some other way to channel your issues."

Marco felt very exposed and looked at the floor. _What a waste_ , he thought. That was a limited edition flavor.

He nodded his head, and he saw her leave the room.

"Now, I need to clean this," he mumbled.

Bending down, he believed he was alone and gasped when fingers dug into his shoulder.

"Sugary food is bad for you," she said, voice creeping down his neck, "And, Marco?"

He looked back into her ice cold, cereal-hating eyes.

"Yeah?"

"You should go back to yoga."

 

* * *

 

"Oh, man."

Marco was standing outside the yoga studio, waiting just a little longer to go inside.

He'd gone alone, which was the result of Annie's influence that he shouldn't rely on safety nets. This was an excuse, of course; she just didn't want him picking up Connie and Sashas' eating habits. He couldn't really blame her. They ate fast food **_a lot_**.

He stared up into one of the windows on the second floor and exhaled.

"Time to go," he said and walked inside.

 

* * *

  
When he entered the yoga room a second time, a rush of cool air lapped at his skin. Marco was half expecting the temperature to be comparable to an oven. At least, he knew this wasn't Bikram again.

Marco sneezed and looked around. He was the only one there.

After rolling out his mat, he quickly sat down and removed his shoes. He figured he'd attempt a resting pose where his calves were tucked beneath him (another disaster from the previous week).

 _Nope_ , he thought, _not that one either_.

He could stretch out his legs, at least.

"Nice socks."

Marco whipped his head around and saw Jean, who was sporting the tightest under armor he'd ever seen.

 _How is he going to move in that?_ , he thought.

"Uh. Thanks," Marco said, looking at his socks.

They were made for yoga and built in with individual pockets for each toe. He felt a little embarrassed about buying something he probably wasn't going to use after the first day. Jean walked over to the front and began unpacking his mat and a knapsack.

"Do you have one of these? It's a yoga block." Jean said, showing him a small, purple object.

"Uh. Well, I don't--. I'm not exactly sure--. I might have--."

Jean raised an eyebrow as he spoke.

"So, no?"

"No."

"Okay, well, I'll show you."

"You really don't need to," Marco said.

He felt a little flustered about speaking so casually with someone he'd been using as ~~jacking off~~ reference material for the past couple of days.

Jean walked behind him and out of sight.

"Yeah, but I want to."

Marco wasn't sure what to say to that and smiled. To feel like that, grand, important, and honest, it left him feeling more like himself than he had in a month. He just wanted to get up and race around the city.

A minute of silence passed between them, before he couldn't take it any longer.

"Hey, Jean?" he said, twisting his neck and smiling at him.

Jean looked away for a second before answering,

"Yeah?"

Marco thought his instructor looked almost uncomfortable beneath the scowl.

"Are you going to show me what to do with that?" he said, pointing at the long forgotten block in his hand.

"Oh. Yeah. Let me just--. Uh--," Jean said.

"Show you?"

The blonde blushed then, and Marco felt he had the upper hand for once. His dreams were quickly dashed.

"Alright, let's get you into Vajrasana, kneeling pose," Jean said, standing over him expectantly.

 _Crap_ , Marco thought.

He'd already attempted that earlier, but he wasn't going to let Jean know that.

 _Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!_ The general discomfort he felt in this position always alarmed him.

"Have you had a knee injury?" Jean asked.

His expression was stern, but soft.

"No," Marco began, "I'm just really inflexible."

"Don't look so damn sad about it," Jean snickered, "We'll get you there eventually."

Marco couldn't help but frown at his words, eliciting a fairly obnoxious laugh out of the other man.

Jean went behind him then and pushed his back forward until he was kneeling straight up. He placed the yoga block between the brunette's legs. Marco felt warm from all the mindless attention.

"Okay, so, sit on it."

Marco felt his eyes bulge for a moment and was busy trying to not take Jean's very innocent words out of context.

"Yes, sir," he replied, quickly paling from his words.

His bottom hit the yoga block, and while it was not the best feeling, he felt it was the most success he'd had so far.

"You know, Marco, I--."

The door slammed open.

"What's up, bitches?"

The flash of irritation that crossed Jean's face could only mean one thing.

"Connie?"

"Marco! Didn't think you'd be here yet," the shorter man said.

Sasha came in shortly after, laughing about something hilarious that she'd seen in the hall.

"Marco," she said, "Come here. We gotta tell you something."

Marco tried to get up too fast, and he felt Jean's hand on his shoulder as a reminder to slow down. He involuntarily touched his hand in thanks, and in realizing what he was doing, quickly snapped it away. When he looked over at Jean, the man was just smiling at him. Marco didn't expect that was possible with Sasha and Connie in the room.

He stood up and rubbed his neck sheepishly.

"Thanks for helping me out again, " Marco said, "Here's your block."

"Just keep it. Pretty sure my collection has breached the hundreds by now," Jean said and returned to his mat at the front.

Even if Jean tried to play it off as something useless, Marco felt a twinge of happiness run through him.

When he made it over to Connie and Sasha, Marco peeked over at Jean, who was busy going through his knapsack. The instructor looked up then, and they both stared at each other.

 _Yes_ , Marco thought while giving Jean a quick, heartfelt wave.

_I am going to enjoy this._


	3. He's a Tough Cookie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was there some charm to his past, or was the heat finally getting to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I have been horrifically busy and had some major writer's block. This isn't even that long! I was honestly working on this bit by bit...

"Okay, everyone, we'll start in about ten minutes."

Marco's gaze traveled over to the water. Waves rolled and crashed against a cliff at the other side of the beach.

 _Yoga by the ocean_ , he thought while mindlessly scratching at his left brow.

A week ago, someone requested that there be a group trip for off-site yoga, and more people jumped on the idea before their instructor could refuse.

 _Poor Jean_ , he thought, smiling to himself.

The man would be forced to spend his rare day off with his noisiest class. One person was particularly volatile, constantly knocking heads with the him during class. Whenever that guy spoke, Marco swore he saw Jean's eyes bleed from how callously he rolled his eyes.

Still, he enjoyed the class. He enjoyed Jean.

Marco wasn't sure if he was getting any better at yoga. He embarrassed himself at least once per session, still victim to the occasional yelp or face plant. He grimaced just from thinking about it.

He inhaled the cool, salty air. Even with his mishaps, he liked getting out of the city for once. He dug his feet into the sand, enjoying the gritty texture.

"This beach is so nice," he mumbled to himself, "There's no trash anywhere."

Marco looked up at the sky, reminiscing on the past two months. He was at the studio three days a week for an hour a day. He was eating better--. Well, not as poorly. He was meeting tons of people. Even his job seemed less engrossing than it used to. Overall, he felt good.

 _Really good_ , he thought.

It was nice to not be consistently on edge from minute to minute. In the back of his mind, he knew exactly why he felt so at peace, but he pushed that thought aside when he heard someone calling his name.

"Marco, are you ready to go?"

It was Jean. Everyone was standing at their mats, waiting for him to go to the front.

"Oh, sorry. Yeah," Marco said, "Yeah, of course! Sorry about that."

"Marco," Jean said into his ear.

Marco was _not_ used to him saying his name like that, a melody on his tongue, and felt a tingling at the back of his neck.

Jean squeezed his arm, light and affectionate. When his hand fell away, Marco quickly moved over to his mat, thinking about what could happen if it had been a private session instead.

A spark ran through him from the idea.

He blushed then and realized he was going to have to come up with something much better than the _**"**_ **I just have a really bad sunburn"** excuse, if he was going to survive the day without relentless taunting.

Jean started them out with downward dog and led them through a particularly difficult sequence. Marco felt his body burning from the strain. Plow? He tried. Wheel pose? He realized his back did not like to bend like that. Crow pose? Well, he liked watching their instructor do crow pose. Otherwise, it wasn't a success. Marco looked to the side and bit his lip.

"How is everyone so damn good at this pose?" he said aloud, thanking a nearby crashing wave for drowning out his voice.

A few agonizing moments later, Jean had them sit and lay back on their mats.

"Alright, let's settle into corpse pose and release the tension of the day. Let the waves relax you--."

Someone scoffed, effectively cutting Jean off.

Marco swallowed. The tension in the air was almost painful to listen to.

"Let the sounds of the ocean soothe you," Jean began again, voice like sandpaper, "Relax. Shut your eyes, and release everything you're holding on to."

After five minutes, Marco heard the soft shuffling of someone moving off their mat.

"That's it for the day. Feel free to walk around, and good job, everyone."

Collective groans and the sounds of casual conversation filled the air. The people in his class talked excitedly about finally having an excuse to go to the beach and whatever else they were going to do for the day.

 _What am I going to do?_ , he thought.

Connie and Sasha couldn't come, and he was flying solo because of it. Marco enjoyed the beach though, and while he didn't mind being alone, he enjoyed company much more. He supposed he would go trapeze along the rocks beside the shore, build a sandcastle, or go swimming. If he got really bored, he would call Annie and ask her about her favorite things, like kitchen knives or the sounds of children crying.

 _Wow, I'm not that desperate,_ he thought, _I guess it's time to get this show on the road._

Marco opened his eyes to the overcast sky and Jean looking over him.

"Did I wake you up?" Jean said, voice teasing.

"Yes, you woke me from this great dream where I could actually hold a pose for more than 3 milliseconds, and you were the one falling over and making a fool of yourself."

"Someone's in a bad mood. Didn't get your walk this morning? Want me to rub your belly?"

"Be careful. I bite."

Jean laughed and stretched a hand out for Marco, who immediately stood up. He suddenly felt a little light headed from getting up too quickly and swayed a bit.

"Easy. Easy," Jean said, "Do me a favor and try not to break anything today."

He patted Marco's shoulders to steady him.

"Do I have a sign on me that says "Fragile" or "Handle with care" or something? I'm fine, Jean, but I appreciate it."

Jean had the decency to look embarrassed for once and stepped away from him.

"Well, we have a full day of the beach to enjoy," Jean said while digging his heels into the sand, "What are you going to do? More yoga?"

"No way!" Marco yelled out,"That would be an absolute no."

He chuckled from the stress.

"Not even if I were naked?"

Marco stared out at the landscape in a feeble attempt to keep his cool. He stuttered the moment he opened his mouth.

"I--. What--."

Instead of answering him, Jean winked in response, flustering the man into a frenzy.

"I'm going to swim."

He walked off ~~sauntered~~ towards the water and plunged through in his shorts and blindingly white shirt. Back in control, Marco was more than irritated with himself that he could never have the upper hand. His reactions were always too honest, and he knew his type of personality would be constantly at the mercy of someone as devilish as Jean. If Marco could just relax, the ruthless yogi would be wrapped around his will like a tightly coiled hand towel. Determined, he stood against the wind and slammed his fist into his hand. Seagulls cawed breathlessly above him. 

 _I, Marco Bott,_ he thought _, will win Jean over with the sexiest seduction I can muster._

"Marco? Marco Bott? Is that you?"

The birds still sung their crooked melody across the sky. Even in the heat of the sun, he turned white from the sound of his old life pounding relentlessly at his backdoor. At the heart of it all, he would be forced to face _him_ again.

"He doesn't want to talk," mumbled another achingly familiar voice, "Let's go."

For once, he couldn't help but agree. Turning around, Marco faced Reiner Braun again. He was the same, of course, just a bit older. Stocky. Ruggedly handsome. And just like back then, Bertholdt Hoover was a part of the whole package, adding some height with a kick of nervous energy. It was annoying.

"So, it is you," Reiner said, face softening.

 _Don't look at me like that_ , Marco thought.

Here was his chance to tell the two of them exactly what he should have two years before. Yet, he said nothing, watching the two of them carefully.

"Hey, how have you been?," Reiner said after a moment.

Bertholdt cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, stiff and standing slightly behind Reiner. Marco smiled.

"You want to know how I've been? You two want to know how I've been?" he said, voice picking up enough volume to become publicly unacceptable.

 _Oh, this is so unlike me,_ Marco thought excitedly.

His stance was a little steadier. His eyes grew a little more threatening.

"Well, Reiner. Bertholdt. Oh, man, where do I begin--."

He finally had them.

"Marco?"

And it all fell away.

There Jean was, acting like some white knight in shining armor, except his armor wasn't made of steel. It was made of thin, wet, crinkling fabric.

 _This is **not** the time, Marco!_ he silently chastised himself.

He was too angry to be turned on.

Jean stared at the three men, obviously confused, saying, "What's going on?"

Before Marco could reply, Reiner stepped in.

"Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Reiner, and this is Bertholdt."

Marco could just scream at him.

"I'm Jean," he replied and crossed his arms in the process.

Reiner frowned, and this time Bertholdt jumped in.

"We've never been to this beach before," he said quickly, "Do you guys come here a lot?"

"I suppose," Jean said.

"Ah, so you must know each other well," Reiner cut in.

Jean nodded and brushed away a drop of water that had run down his forehead. Original fire all but extinguished, Marco had not said a word; the opportunity was too far gone for him to catch it again.

 _I could make it more awkward_ , he thought.

Marco knew Reiner wouldn't give up on trying to win Jean over, but his companion seemed to feel differently. Bertholdt would not stop flicking the tip of his nose, and it was driving the generally sweet man insane.

"If the two of you aren't busy," Reiner said, "How would the two of you like to join us for the day--."

"What the fuck, Reiner."

Right on cue, the three men stared at him. Reiner looked like his jaw was going to pop off, Bertholdt looked uncharacteristically pissed off, and Jean looked--. Well, he looked downright impressed. Reiner was the first to regain his composure.

"This doesn't need to be messy," he said, voice soothing as mist on his hot skin.

 _Always have to be the one in control_ , Marco thought.

"If you have something to say to Bertholdt or me," he continued, "Go ahead."

Marco felt nauseous whenever he was lumped into an argument. For once, he'd initiated the fight, and his stomach was killing him.

"I--. I don't," Marco said, close to losing his nerve.

"Alright. If you're sure--. We're going to go kayaking through some of the caves on the other side of the pier."

Reiner was so casual in his words and gestures, but he always redirected the conversation to end in his advantage. Marco felt like he'd been hit in the gut.

"Nice meeting you, Jean," Bertholdt chimed in, "Marco."

When they walked off, Marco heard Jean exhale noisily and prepared for the onslaught of questions coming his way.

"Well, are we going or what?" Jean said.

_What?_

"And why would we do that? Don't tell me you have a crush on Bertholdt."

"You're strange, Marco," he laughed, "And we've got nothing better to do."

Ending the conversation, Jean began walking in the direction of the pier, and Marco had to nearly jog to keep up with his pace.

The young instructor eventually slowed down and walked leisurely at his side. Marco looked ahead. Reiner and Bertholdt were within view. They were in a quieter area of the beach, when Jean spoke out.

"So, you ever kayaked before?"

"He's my ex."

 _Way to go, you idiot,_ Marco thought _, Nice, smooth entrance._

Jean stopped walking and fidgeted with his shirt.

"Oh."

 _How am I supposed to translate that?_   Marco thought.

"I just wanted you to know."

"Is there a reason?"

He shook his head roughly in protest.

"No, just wanted to clear up some confusion."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

_Mercy, today is going to be rough_ , he thought.

Too busy scolding himself for the day's disastrous turn, Marco didn't notice Jean, whose face was a brilliant pink, move in a step closer.

It would be a rough day for two.


	4. Organic Ginseng Shampoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't anymore strange than some broken glass in a dive bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to do more than monthly updates. I really am. I'm really trying... HAHAHA

Walking along the coast, Marco felt all his old memories angrily burst up from below the surface of his mind. His ex never wanted to go anywhere when they were together and almost always opted to stay in. A day trip to the beach? Forget it. They barely went out to eat. At a glance, Reiner seemed predictable, but there he was, contentedly on a date _outside_ with Bertholdt. Part of Marco's confusion came from how he felt back then. He remembered being desperately happy, more than in love, but his world had been smaller, entirely consumed by a single person.

 _People change, I suppose_ , he thought.

Seeing them together, it didn't hurt like it used to, at least. Watching Reiner's back as he held the hand of another man, that was all too surreal.

"What are you thinking we'll find in those caves?" Jean's voice called out from the hazy spell he seemed to be under.

"Uh-hum?" Marco said, half listening, "What caves?"

"The caves we're going kayaking in."

"Kayaking?"

He didn't notice the blonde stop, until he felt a small tug at his shoulder.

"What's going on?" Marco said, finally alert.

Jean looked like he wanted to say something and chewed nervously at his lip.

Marco was tired and just wanted the day to end. His body was running on empty, and sleep wasn't exactly a far off prospect.

"Nothing."

Jean seemed annoyed and walked forward with hasty determination. Marco didn't feel as obliged to run towards a source of previous pain. His pace was slow, and he was really starting to feel awful. Jean possibly being upset with him wasn't exactly helping either. He could use some cereal.

By the time Marco reached the meet up spot, Jean, Reiner, and Bertholdt were stretching for an inevitably long hike. He looked nonchalantly at his ex, who had his arm pulled behind his head, and Marco remembered why he fell for him in the first place. Reiner had a kind of aura about him that demanded attention. No less than a second later, Reiner caught him staring, and the brunette quickly looked to a cracked seashell at his feet.

 _What am I doing_ , Marco thought, _that ship has sailed._

The worst part was that Reiner didn't even have the decency to look upset. He pitied Marco, and that was extremely hard to digest. It undermined all the progress he'd made, as if Reiner's absence stripped him of his ability to grow.

"Okay," Jean said, irritation laced in his voice, "Where are the kayaks?"

Bertholdt answered quickly, "We decided it might be better if we just walked, since the water is a bit too shallow for the kayaks in this cave."

"Hope you guys don't mind," Reiner added.

"No," Marco said, while he began heading into the cave, "I'll meet you guys inside."

"Okay, but hold on a second," Reiner called out from behind him.

Marco froze on the spot, closed his eyes, and listened to the soft padding of footsteps on sand come closer.

He opened his eyes before the man came in front of him.

"You'll need this," Reiner said, holding out a small flashlight.

"Thanks," Marco said, taking the flashlight and speeding off with little regard to his surroundings.

The interior of the cave leaked and smelled heavily of seaweed and rotting wood. The rocks were slippery and jagged, making him instantly regret leaving his shoes behind. The sounds of the angry sea grew muted, but he didn't care. He needed to get away.

Less than five minutes later, he needed the flashlight, as the sunlight of the entrance was all but diminished. He finally slowed to a stop when he found a fork in the cave.

Opting for the opening on his left, Marco was about to take off when he heard someone splash into a puddle beside him. He pinned the sound with his light, scared of who he'd find. Then, he relaxed. It was Jean.

 _He probably thinks I'm such a wreck,_ Marco thought, belly twisting at the sight of him.

He was expecting a lecture, when Jean smirked at him, looking more relieved than angry.

"You know," the blonde began, "I wish you had this sort of energy in class. I feel like I'm supporting a pile of rocks when we do assisted handstands."

 _He didn't ask_ , Marco thought, relieved that he wouldn't have to explain Reiner's bullshit in such a cramped, dark area.

"Putting handstands in a beginner's class is your fault if you don't like the results," Marco mumbled, mood lifting significantly from seeing Jean smiling at him.

Jean came closer to him, and the darkness of the cave gave Marco the confidence to move in a step as well.

"Wow, you're getting cheeky," Jean teased, "You would've just said how sorry you were and how you'll work harder a month ago."

"I can't let you get too egoistic. Your head's fairly close to bursting at this point."

"I can't help it, if I want to put on a show."

"And why would you want to do that?"

"I wonder."

Jean was in his ear, rough voice translating into silk.

"We should go left," Marco said, ignoring the loaded statement, so he could regain some control of the conversation.

"Sure."

Marco sighed heavily, realizing they probably couldn't just go wherever they wanted.

"What's wrong?" Jean asked. His voice had cooled down, sounding tentative.

"Nothing. We should wait for them," Marco said, shaking his head slightly, "Bertholdt and Reiner."

"Whatever you want to do, we'll do."

"Thank you."

"Anytime."

Even if Reiner was coming, Marco stood at ease, flattered that Jean found him interesting enough to stick around.

A few minutes later, Reiner and Bertholdt appeared, explaining that a storm was headed on its way, and they needed to leave the cave before they were all flushed out. Reiner looked over at Marco and Jean, who were at a closer proximity than was probably necessary and didn't move until Bertholdt tugged at his arm to leave.

"Your ex is one creepy son of a bitch," Jean said, caring little if he was heard or not.

"What?" Marco replied, a little embarrassed.

"I don't know; I just don't like him."

Marco felt almost obligated to tell Jean why he was both absolutely right and absolutely wrong. He opted for a joke instead.

"He's not that bad, but you have a point. He doesn't eat organic or make love to trees out in the forest. He doesn't even use a pedometer."

Jean huffed and left Marco behind, who was laughing rather obnoxiously. A few tears fell from the brunette's eyes, partly from his poor humor and mostly from stress.

 _I want to go home,_ he thought, feeling suddenly somber.

The light of the entrance was a much duller image from before. The poor weather had swept over the area, almost at an alarming pace. Quickly wiping away any stray tears, Marco caught up to Jean at the entrance.

"We weren't even in there for more than fifteen minutes," Jean muttered and held up his hand to catch the beginnings of a new rain.

"Sometimes that's all it takes."

Before Jean could get in a reply, Bertholdt came over, obviously ready to make an announcement.

"So--. Our day has been cut short here, and Reiner wants--. We want you to come out to dinner with us, Marco."

Marco frowned. Bertholdt's fake politeness was almost as annoying as Reiner sending the man over as some glorified messenger boy.

"Jean, you're welcome to come too."

"No, thanks."

Jean was immediate in his answer and was doing his best to look bored in the process. Marco still hadn't said anything, and he was pointedly ignoring Jean's obvious look of disapproval.

He wanted to say no. He really felt that was all he was capable of, but the thought of getting some resolution from the two would help him breathe a little easier at night. All day, they had been trying to get Marco alone, and he wasn't sure if he wanted a situation where there weren't any outs.

"I--. Well, not tonight," Marco said, again ignoring Jean's shameless expression of happiness.

Bertholdt looked relieved and nodded, but Marco knew he wasn't likely to get off that easily.

"Marco," that steely voice cut in.

"What is it, Reiner?" he said, too tired to maintain any feigned adoration of the man.

Reiner stopped in front of Marco, gave him a soft smile, and held out his hand.

"Think I could have that flashlight back?" Reiner said, taking the utmost care to sound nonthreatening.

Marco nodded and felt his shoulders relax as he pulled the flashlight out of his pocket. When Reiner took the small item back, he brushed his fingertips along the back of the brunette's hand. It was such a small gesture, probably some muscle memory left behind from their past history, but it made Marco's skin crawl. Jean and Bertholdt probably didn't notice, and that made him feel unclean and out of sorts.

"You're welcome to join us for dinner or whatever," Reiner said, making sure to look Jean in the eye as well.

"I really can't tonight," Marco said.

"You sure? We want to know how you've been; it's been a long time."

"Well, I--," Marco said, searching for an excuse, "No, that's okay. Not tonight."

It was annoying that he even bothered to look for an excuse; he had no reason to go.

"But some other night?"

Reiner didn't notice, but Bertholdt was staring incredulously at the back of his head. Jean was about to interfere, when Marco made his decision.

"Yes," he said, defeated, "Some other night is fine."

"Great!"

Bertholdt and Reiner left shortly after, leaving Jean and a very downtrodden Marco behind. How could he let this happen? How were his decisions swept under the rug so decidedly?

"C'mon," Jean said, voice subdued, "Don't forget that there's a storm coming."

 _He wasn't kidding_ , Marco thought.

The rain came down hard, heavy. Marco and Jean hurried back to collect their mats , quickly taking refuge under a cluster of sturdy trees.

"Do you have a ride?" Jean shouted, barely audible due to the fierce weather.

"Yeah, my roommate dropped me off. I just have to call her," Marco yelled back, digging into his pocket.

He froze.

"I don't have it."

"What?"

"My phone. I don't have it. I think I left it in Annie's car."

"Shit, really?"

Jean ran his hand through his hair, clearly stressed from the information.

"What's wrong?"

"Well, I don't have my phone either."

"Really? Why not?"

"I don't bring my phone to sessions."

"Seriously?"

"Of course. How am I supposed to concentrate with it always buzzing and making noise?"

Marco laughed.

"You can put it on silent, you know."

"Even on silent, phones make noise."

" _Phones make noise_ ," Marco parroted, "Forgive me. I knew nothing of the world until you."

He laughed again, and Jean shot him a nasty look in return.

"Do you think--. Do you think you could give me a ride, Jean?"

"No."

 _Crap, I pissed him off_ , Marco thought.

"Oh--. Oh, okay."

Jean sighed and slowly lifted Marco's chin with his hand, and, of course, the action immediately turned Marco's face a marvelous shade of red.

 _Crap_ , Marco thought.

"Please don't look so pathetic," Jean said, "I don't have my car with me."

The blonde's hand fell away then, and Marco couldn't help rubbing some of the sensation from his face.

"Someone give you a ride?"

"I jogged here."

"You have got to be joking. Please, tell me you're joking."

"Nope, I was going to walk back, but it's raining now. It isn't a problem really, but I can't just leave you here."

"Do not worry about me. I think you're crazy for wanting to walk back; I honestly don't even want to know how far it is."

"You know it's only about 8 k... So, technically, we could--."

"No way."

"C'mon. It'll be fun."

"It looks like it's going to start hailing."

"There's no lightning out and there's plenty of stops along the way, if it gets any worse than this."

"I'm not sure it's a great idea."

"Well, it's up to you. I won't push it."

Marco looked up at the sky, which was a furious mixture of grays, looked back at Jean, and knew his decision.

"Crap."

 

* * *

 

The walk and jog wasn't as bad as Marco believed it was going to be, and Jean was right. It **_was_ ** fun.

Between all the messing around and splashing each other, he didn't notice the time. It must have been late, because the clouds were tinged with more black than anything else.

Soon, they were in front of Jean's house, both soaked to the bone and sore beyond measure.

"I'll wait out here," Marco said, rubbing his arms.

A flash of light surrounded them for a moment.

Boom!

They jumped from the noise.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jean said, pulling a key from under a small potted plant, "We have a thunderstorm on our hands now."

He turned the light on, and the first thing Marco noticed was the smell.

The man lived in a small bungalow, which was decorated in dark blues and violets, wicker furniture, and cream colored tile. Marco inhaled again. It smelled like lavender. It smelled like clean clothes out of the dryer. It smelled like Jean.

"Your house is nice."

"Thanks."

The second thing Marco noticed was that Jean had his shirt halfway off. Droplets were running down his torso, falling liberally into a puddle on the floor. He was close enough to even see the goose bumps on his skin.

"Did you want to take a shower?" Jean said, busy unlacing his shoes, "Marco?"

He looked up at the taller man, whose half-closed eyes were right on him.

 _I've been caught_ , Marco thought.

"Shower sounds great," the brunette said quickly.

Jean peeled off the rest of his shirt before answering.

Marco fumbled with the mat he was holding and dropped it.

"Bathroom is in the bedroom," the blonde said calmly, "It's through this door on my right."

"I'll need--. Uh, well, I need--."

"Clothes?"

"Yes," Marco nearly whispered.

I sound like a dying mouse, he thought.

"No problem."

Jean opened his bedroom door, and Marco entered as smoothly as he could muster; this wasn't particularly successful since he tripped over nothing when he had to pass by the other man.

"There's towels on the shelf."

"Okay."

"Soap and shampoo in the shower."

"Okay."

"Marco?"

"Yeah?"

"Let me know if you need anything else."

"Gotcha."

Jean gave him a once over and started closing the door.

"Enjoy that hot water."

"Thanks. You too."

The other man smirked, and Marco closed the door in his face, albeit gently.

" _You too?_ " he groaned to himself, "What was that?"

Annoyed with himself, Marco's eyes traveled over to the bed. It was small, a twin probably, and overflowing with pillows. The sheets were all neatly tucked into place.

 _Not much room for two,_ he thought, _Jean's personal space._

Jean's bed was right in front of him, unattended.

Marco stepped towards it, looked back at the closed door, and considered his options.

 _I shouldn't_ , he thought, but his clothes were already hitting the floor; each sloppy plop sounded sharper than the thunder outside.

Naked, he hovered over the bed. Maybe, it was all the exercise that made him feel this way, or it was the stress of seeing Reiner and Bertholdt. Maybe, it was Jean's incessant flirtation, or Marco's own awkward attempts of responding to it. The day felt off, and he felt lightheaded and impulsive all at once.

He grabbed one of the pillows and clung to it, staining the pillowcase with his damp skin. He could've resisted, but he felt dizzy and hot. This was such a childish need. He pressed his face to the soft cotton material.

He smells so good--!

Knock, knock.

_Oh no._

"Marco? You okay in there?"

_Oh shit._

He only had a second to fling the pillow away from him before Jean opened the door. The pillow hit mattress with enough force to send two others flying off the bed. Marco was stuck in place, still nude, mortified.

Thankfully, the other man's eyes were closed tight as he popped his head in.

"Marco?"

His voice was loud; he probably thought he was in the shower already.

"Yes, Jean?"

_Please, don't open your eyes. Oh god, please, don't open your eyes. Please._

"The electric went out in the living room. Just making sure everything is working out okay in here."

"Yes--. Yeah. Everything is working fine. Thank you."

"Have you showered yet? Are you dressed--."

"NO! Sorry, I--. No, I am not, and I have not yet."

"Okay, well, feel free to hustle. I'm freezing my balls off out here."

 _Same here_ , Marco thought.

"Alright, no problem."

When the door closed, he cleaned up his clothes, the pillows, and the trail of water he'd left around the room.

He walked in the bathroom completely exhausted and dimmed the lights.

Under the hot water, he sighed as the unfamiliar spray pierced his skin. The half light cleared his thoughts, and he washed himself freely. He breathed in and out, almost meditating as he wrapped his arms around his body.

 _Organic ginseng shampoo. Of course_ , Marco thought, smiling.

He was happy here, and he groaned from how easy he felt in someone else's home.

Marco was scared too. The last time he felt this way, it hadn’t ended well.

He pressed his head against the tile, and as the shampoo stung his eyes and overwhelmed his senses, he laughed to himself.

"I've got it bad."


	5. Hard to Stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't exactly planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, school has essentially wiped me off the face of the planet. Thanks, school. Thanks. Next update will come a lot faster now that I have time to actually write.

"This isn't the first time! Ha!"  
  
Tilting his weight to the left, the young man held back from rolling his eyes. Some guy down the bar was explaining that, without fail, he would have a mind numbing hangover the next day. He sloshed his drink over his hand, and his date laughed, clearly charmed by his brazen stupidity. The same man would come in every week, every Thursday, with a different woman on his arm. The situation would make Marco a little sad, if the guy wasn't a complete asshole.   
  
Now, no one would probably notice if he did roll his eyes, but he didn't want to risk a tip just so he could give in to some barely there urge. Still, an urge was an urge, and he had to rub just a little harder at the counter to concentrate on not offending anyone. Not to mention, he loved his job. There were days when it was rough sure, but he still made quite a bit per night.  
  
And it was going to be one of _those_ nights. No surprise, the customers were rowdy. A party of 7 had come in already half-drunk and started blustering about wanting fatty tuna and calamari. What? This was a bar, not some ritzy joint on the other side of town. Oh no. This was the sloppiest bar on the eastside. It barely kept up to health standards despite how often the employees cleaned. The grimy atmosphere had people to match, and tonight, these people would likely be difficult. As long as his coworker kept up to speed, they would be fine. Overworked, but fine.  
  
His boss was too cheap to hire a third person, so he just got used to it.   
  
 _This sucks._  
  
He was leaning on the counter when he felt his pocket vibrate.   
  
 _00:45?_  
  
Who was texting him at this hour?

  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Hey! you didn't come to class** _

 

It was Jean.  
  
 _Crap._

 

**\--Isn't it past your bedtime?**

  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Real funny Marco. You never told me how clever you were** _

  
  
**\--You have to admit it's late. Why are you up so late?**

  
  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Hey don't try to deflect my question. I'm onto you fucker** _

  
  
He sighed.

  
  
**\--Sorry. Haven't been feeling well.**

  
  
Marco knew he was full of shit when he sent the text, and he knew the blonde wasn't stupid enough to believe him. He was hoping Jean would pick up on that and just leave him alone.

  
  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Maybe it's because you haven't seen me in two weeks** _

  
  
The comment was light and teasing, but Jean must have been feeling a little self conscious. Marco hadn't done any yoga since he'd been forced to take refuge at Jean's house after the beach trip. He wanted to explain himself, but his stomach felt like it was twisting itself to the point of nausea.  
  
 _Please, please, just drop it,_ Marco thought.  
  
Low and behold, Jean wanted to put up a fight.

  
  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**You want to hang out?** _

  
**\--I'm at work.**

  
  
Marco looked up from his phone  and resumed his post. Jean really had a way of distracting him which was both completely wonderful and completely frustrating.  
  
"Two Moscow mules with double shots of vodka in each. Oh, and some cheesy bread."  
  
"Alright, no problem," Marco said as the customer walked away from the bar, "One order of cheesy bread!"  
  
"Five minutes, Marco," his coworker yelled back from the kitchen.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
He busied himself with the drinks, choosing to ignore the flurry of vibrations coming from his phone.  
  
He'd been wanting to move to a better location and get a better boss. Marco was stuck. If he could keep it up for another year, he'd be able to move up and out.  
  
"Here you go."  
  
"Thanks. Cheesy bread?"  
  
"Should be done in just a moment."  
  
"Okay, thanks."  
  
 _Focus,_ he thought.  
  
He checked his phone anyway.

  
  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Need some company? ;)** _

  
  
Marco wasn't sure if that was a good idea. It was probably a very bad idea actually. There was something about taking whatever they had a step further; it made him sick.  
  


**\--You just want free drinks.**

  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**You'd give me free drinks? trying to get me drunk huh. Didn't think that was your style Marco** _

  
  
**\--Daddy needs to get back to work now, Jean.**

  
  
_**Sexystallion:** _   
  
_**Hate to break it to you babe but you are so not daddy material** _

  
  
**\--GOODNIGHT JEAN**

  
  
"One order of cheesy bread!" his coworker said, slamming him back into the real world.  
  
"Thank you," Marco said as he transferred the plate to the customer, "Enjoy."  
  
The customer nodded, and the brunette slid back into work mode.  
  
As he scanned the room, his eye fell on one person in particular. It was a short, skinny man who stumbled over nothing and eventually crashed into a booth with a violent scowl on his face. He would get cut off if this kept up. Marco shouldn't have been surprised. Thursdays always promised at least one sloppy drunk per hour.  
  
"Hello."  
  
A tall, blonde man had approached him from the crowd. He wore a dark leather jacket that looked expensive. A fortune to Marco, at least. The man paired the jacket with a non-iron, button up and a pair of well-fitted jeans. Normally, he was disinterested in what his customers were wearing. They could show up in garbage bags for all he cared, but this man was overdressed in terms of clothing and company. He was older, but not above forty, and spoke in low, polite tones. Attractive, sure, although he seemed too straightlaced and out of place in a dive like this.  
  
"Hello! What can I get you?" Marco asked.  
  
"A strawberry mojito," the man said, smoothing down his hair, "And a gin and tonic. Please."  
  
"No problem."  
  
Thirty seconds passed, and Marco had his drinks ready.  
  
"Here you go."   
  
After a polite nod and a very nice addition to the tip jar, the brunette's mood lifted instantly. He prided himself on being efficient behind the counter. If was one of the few things he felt he excelled at.  
  
Maybe he'd been wrong about this fresh batch of customers. Maybe it would be a good night.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw his coworker exit the back room and scurry over to him.  
  
"Hey, Marco?"   
  
"What do you need, Armin? That order of cheesy bread took awhile."  
  
The other man hesitated and tucked a strand of yellow hair behind his ear. He looked exhausted with tiny specks of flour dashed across his collar and face. The way he sort of shrunk into himself as he spoke made him seem even smaller.  
  
"I need to take off."  
  
Now, Marco liked Armin a lot; he was sweet and hardworking and always a step ahead. He also never took days off, and it was a little jarring to hear that he was about to take off when the bar was reaching full capacity.   
  
"Armin, I--. I mean--. Of course, go if it's an emergency, but--."  
  
"I'm really sorry. I can't explain right now."  
  
The smaller man started taking his  apron off, and that's when it really registered with Marco that'd he'd be running the place alone.  
  
"I can't physically leave this bar."  
  
"Listen, I have food prepared for situations like this in the back. All you have to do is microwave it."  
  
"Armin, that's not--."  
  
"I'm sorry. I've gotta go. I owe you, Marco," he said and practically ran into the kitchen.  
  
Marco chased after him, probably alerting a few customers, but found the room quiet and empty.  
  
"I--. Armin?"  
  
 _I'm so screwed,_ he thought, while he patted the phone in his pocket.  
  
 _Maybe I should ask Jean to come over. Free labor._  
  
The brunette backed his way back into the bar. He was shaking his head and pressing his hands nervously into his hips.  
  
 _We're just going to have to close off the options on the food menu,_ he thought.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
He whipped around. It was the short, angry man from the  booth.  
  
"Yes?," Marco said, flustered, "What can I get you?"  
  
"Gin and tonics--. **Tonic** ," the man said, obviously trying to control the slur on his tongue. He swayed a bit, blinked heavily, and hung onto the counter as he spoke.  
  
"You okay, sir?"  
  
"I'm fine. Get me my damn drink."  
  
Marco hesitated.  
  
"Alright, just a second."  
  
Marco took a quick mental note that short angry man's next drink would be his last.   
  
Mindlessly filling out order after order, the brunette eased his way through every drink. He had been lucky until his tenth customer, who wanted a large plate of fries and refused to leave the counter until he had them.  
  
"Our food options are currently unavailable--."  
  
"Then why?" the other man prompted, half-snarling, "Why are they on the menu?"  
  
He was a tall, but rather round man, who wheezed and spat as he spoke. Marco looked closely at his forehead; his bangs clung to his skin like chunks of dirt.  
  
"Sir, I apologize, and I'll try to--."  
  
"No. No. No. No. No. No."  
  
"I'm sorry, I--."  
  
"No. You will not be sorry. You will not try. Now, you listen--. No, you'll listen to me. I am paying you for a service. Do you understand?"  
  
"Sir, I--."  
  
"And, you will not try. You will not be sorry. You will make those fries. You will serve me. Why? Because I'm paying you for a service. Because that is your job. Do you understand?"  
  
While he said this, the man smacked his hands together on each syllable.  
  
Marco wasn't sure what he could say to him; he wasn't entirely sure what would stick. He hadn't had this rude of a customer in a very long time. He hadn't felt so insulted.  
  
At this point, a few people had started to stare, and Marco heard the whispers begin to bubble up and felt them like hot water slapping across his back.  
  
"Are you hard of hearing, or are you too stupid to figure out what I said? I pay you, and you serve me. Do you understand? It's really simple. Maybe you don't know. I mean clearly you are incompetent. How did you manage to get dressed this morning? Also, and I did--. I know what I'm talking about. I used to own a restaurant, and this is the worst service I've ever had. Look, I know how this industry works, and you clearly don't fit in it. It's pathetic. I bet you couldn't make it anywhere else in the world, so you decided to become a bartender--."  
  
It was turning into a very bad night.  
  
Marco waited. Retaliation wasn't something that was inherent to his character, and he had suffered for it.  
  
It was a simple fact that no one would help him; he was an adult. He needed to take care of himself. He knew that. But there were times when he just wanted someone else to take the reigns, to protect him and care for him. It was childish, but he was just so tired all the time. He couldn't help it. He was feeling extra pathetic today, and the need was almost to the point of being overwhelming.  
  
Marco felt each word eat away at him. He felt the dread pulse through him like a hammer against wet, weakened wood. He was sweaty. His stomach lurched painfully.   
  
 _Alright, alright. Think! What would that big, ornery, beautiful idiot do? Jean, help me out here,_ he thought.  
  
"You need to leave," Marco said as his voice returned to him.  
  
"I won't," the man said.  
  
"You will, or you will be escorted out."  
  
"Eh--. Excuse me?"  
  
"If you don't leave," Marco snarled, "You will be escorted out ass first onto the street."  
  
The regulars were watching him with big eyes, burning with anticipation over what their usually easygoing bartender would do next.  
  
"You threatening me?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
There was a moment where everything seemed to slow to a terrifying crawl. All at once, the clinking of glass clashed with the distorted sound of a woman's laughter. The smell was distinctly sweet, but not of flowers and ginger. It was the sweet smell of skin as it desperately hung onto sweat and alcohol. His eyes narrowed in on a vein in the center of the man's forehead-- saw it twitch relentlessly. His fingertips dug into his palm. He couldn't taste anything.   
  
 _Oh, god!_  
  
"I'll kill you!"  
  
After a wheezy battlecry, the customer tried to fling himself across the counter; only the man's gut stood between Marco and a good thrashing.  
  
The worst part was that the man hadn't had a single drink that night; he was just hungry.  
  
"Take this, you fat fuck!" someone screamed, and Marco watched the customer collapse from a single punch to the head.   
  
"Holy shit!" a woman yelled from the background.  
  
Marco looked up to his savior, or, rather, he looked down.  
  
It was the short angry man; he was almost catlike and practically bristling. He took one look at Marco, threw some money at him, and took off.   
  
"Ackerman!" someone yelled from the crowd.  
  
The people had packed into a tight circle during the almost fight. They slowly began to disperse and head towards the exit.  
  
Marco looked around the room and caught word of a conversation at his left.  
  
"Erwin, we need to leave now, and go find him," a tallish redhead said to the well-mannered blonde from before.  
  
"Very well."  
  
Erwin walked over to Marco, who quickly looked away, and handed him a sizable stack of cash.  
  
"Sorry about tonight. Have a good night."  
  
Marco's eyes crinkled from the exchange. Erwin took care to step over the man on the floor.  
  
"Wait--," Marco called out, but he was already out the door. This Erwin guy threw money around like it was a pile of coupon cutouts from the Sunday paper.  
  
 _Who carries a wad of cash around? Who are these people?_  
  
He'd probably never know.  
  
He pulled out his phone, deciding to call Armin and his boss, and ignored his most recent text from Jean.  
  
Little did Marco know that his boss was not in the mood for any mishaps at his shoddy bar. The next few minutes would cost Marco any tips he'd made for the night and his job.  
  
Armin got fired too.  
  
Moving out wasn't an option anymore.  
  
Where did any of this niceness get him? Unemployed. Nearly assualted. He was constantly bending over backwards for everyone, and, now, he was on the verge of downsizing to his car as a living space. He was so angry with himself. He should've just kicked the rude customer out to begin with and forced Armin to stay on for the night. Should have cut off the short angry man, as grateful as he was for his assistance.  

_No more,_ Marco thought.  
  
He was done being careful.  
  
That must have been why he suddenly found himself outside Jean's cozy little house. He hung off the porch at the man's front door, positively hammered and ready to take a chance.


	6. C'Mere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beating in his chest is two parts nerves, one part vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Jean's perspective. Whooooa, look who's edgy. Haha. Guess I'm going to have to start changing the ratings on this thing... Happy holidays, and thanks for reading!

He'd recently had some trouble sleeping, and it was really starting to gnaw away at him.

Silence was the real reason he couldn't sleep he supposed.

The man needed music, the soft sounds of an acoustic guitar strumming gently along the background, or he needed the static of the TV to chatter noisily into the room. He'd take anything to cut into the heavy buzz of nothing and drown out the growing pressure on his ears. He sunk into his pillow just to remove himself from the tension.

He couldn't help it. Silence just made him over think everything, and before he knew it, he'd be up stewing past the break of dawn over things he had no control of. He liked control; it was how he kept himself centered.

The funny thing was that Jean was supposed to be the image of health (as stated by most of his 'friends'), and he desperately wanted to live up to his reputation.

This would be the beginning of the third week of little to no sleep. It was getting so bad that it was starting to affect his ability to teach yoga, which he refused to tolerate.

"Go to bed, Jean," he whined into the mattress.

Close to abandoning his task, he peered over the edge of his pillow to look at his bedside table. It was empty, of course. He was thankful that he started keeping his phone off and at the other side of the room.

_Less tempting_ , he thought to himself.

Honestly, he didn't want his phone for browsing and games as much as he wanted to see if he had any missed calls or messages. He wanted to know if he was leaving someone else hanging on the other end.

"He doesn't want you. Get over it," he sighed and buried himself further into his sheets.

It wasn't like he was the desperate type; he'd had plenty of chances to jump into a half-hearted romance or someone else's bed throughout the years. He had eyes, and he knew he was a catch. Arrogant? Maybe. Wrong? Absolutely not. He worked hard for his body.

His looks weren't the problem. They couldn't be.

It was the oddest feeling. Jean was used to getting what he wanted without having to ask for it, and it was strange to not have the opportunity (or rather the person) fall right into his hands. He was feeling irritated and neglected. It wasn't a big deal. He wanted to feel that way, at least.

Yeah, he knew exactly why he couldn't sleep.

_You aren't some little kid with a crush anymore._

"That's exactly what you are," he argued with himself.

Resolved on putting the subject to rest, he rolled onto his back and forced himself to clear his mind. After several minutes of staring at the ceiling, his mind began to drift off. Jean was just on the edge of passing out when he heard footsteps outside his home.

"Goddamn it!"

He was already on edge from fatigue, and he was immediately inclined to kick ass when he tumbled out of bed.

_Keep cool, Jean,_ he thought and tore through his bedside drawer to find one of his stress-relieving squishy balls. They were ridiculous, but they really helped.

By the time he reached the door, the sound of pacing was overshadowed by a familiar voice. He flicked on the lights and let the ball fall from his hand.

"Should knock on his droor--. door. That pretty boy's big portal in--. Wow. C'mon! What was I saying? Oh, he's got something into--. Inside of--. Jean!"

When he opened the door, there Marco was, the man who had kept him up night after night for almost a month. Everything the blonde desired in one awkward, inflexible mess. The man with the face of a fucking angel. It made him so mad, but Jean smiled anyway and quickly cursed himself for it.

" _Hi,_ Jean."

"Hi, Marco."

"Hi."

The brunette was holding himself up with one hand pressed firmly into one of the pillars holding up Jean's front porch. He was red as hell too.

_Oh, he is **drunk** ,_ the blonde thought.

"Marco?"

"Yeah, honey?"

_Honey?_

"It's pretty late for house calls," Jean said, "Not that I mind."

"Your fault," the man slurred.

Jean laughed at that.

"How so?"

"You--. You're bad--. A bad influence on me."

Marco was shivering.

"Uh-hum, and who's the one that showed up at my house completely fucked up?"

There was no bite in his voice. Marco grinned and squeezed his hands together.

"I don't know. Can I trust you to take care of me?"

Jean flushed from the comment.

"Excuse me, I only have good intentions," Jean said in mock annoyance, giving Marco a once over, "Hey, do you want to come in?"

"Can I come in?" he asked, burping into his free hand, "S'cuse me."

"Nice one."

Marco stumbled inside and decided to sit next to the couch rather than on it. Jean contemplated playing 21 questions about the brunette's night, as he shut the front door and locked it.

"Wow. You live here. You know," Marco began, laughing to himself.

Jean raised an eyebrow and sat beside him on the floor.

"I just--. I just never noticed before, but you--. You are--. Crap. Okay, what I am trying to say is--. You have the nicest stuff. I want to pass out on your floor."

"Go ahead."

"Don't you tempt me, Jean. I'm going to drool all over your rug. Then, you'll have to clean it. I don't know if you're ready to take on that kind of commitment."

"Clean up after you? In that case, you're a little too high maintenance for me. Sorry."

Marco barked a laugh and looked his companion in the eye the best he could.

"We both know you just want me for my hot, young body."

_What a dork,_ he thought.

"I'm younger than you," Jean said, feeling cocky and relaxed, "And, hotter."

Uncharacteristically, Marco scoffed so roughly that Jean swore he'd heard his throat tear in the process. Right after, the taller man came close enough to tickle the flesh of his ear.

"Are you saying," he murmured, voice hot and indiscreet, "You'd rather fuck yourself instead of fucking me?"

The mood in the room turned in an instant.

The brunette may have been joking around, but he was too intoxicated to pass it off as such. Instead, he appeared entirely serious. Jean wasn't sure what to think. Maybe, he was serious.

After several tense moments, somehow, the blonde calmly looked away. The only way to go on was to ignore it or address it. Regardless, the comment had him burning up to the point of dizziness.

_How am I going to survive this night?_ Jean thought.

His mind was racing a million miles a second. His palms were covered in sweat, and he swore he felt his heart stammer in his chest. The brunette just had to come over looking sexy as fuck in his all black ensemble and say the most erotic thing his sweet, drunken heart could handle. Marco was disheveled and needy and vulnerable, and it took all of Jean's willpower to shut off the part of his brain that wanted him to go along with it.

"Oh, man," the other man said, making Jean freeze up, "I am so going to regret saying that. The room is spinning, Jean."

Marco leaned back and dug his fingers into the rug beneath him, shutting his eyes and sighing contentedly. Jean fought the urge to pinch the other man as he dozed off.

"If you want to sleep out here, you can," Jean muttered, quick to change the subject, "I'll just turn on the heater."

Marco snapped his eyes open and grabbed Jean's hand.

"No way. I'm awake! I just need--. Coffee! Energy drinks!"

"You're drunk. All you need is some water, some food, and a blanket."

"I'll go to bed if you go with me."

Jean wanted to pull his hand away, but he couldn't.

"Can you even stand?"

"Of course I can!"

Affronted, Marco leapt up and nearly fell over. His safest course relied on crashing into his midnight host.

"Holy shit, you weigh a ton," the blonde spat out.

His head felt hot as the other man buried his face in his neck.

"God, you smell so good," Marco began, wrapping his arms around Jean's waist, "How do you always smell so good? You asshole."

_Think practical thoughts. Think practical thoughts. Think practical thoughts._

"Marco," Jean said, as he tried to rearrange their position into a more family friendly one, "I need you to walk with me to the bathroom. Can you do that?"

"Shower sex!"

_Do not think with your **dick** , Jean!_

"Not quite, you horn-dog."

Marco laughed at that, and (finally) let Jean lead him to the bathroom.

"There's no shower in here. Didn't even know you had a second bathroom... Tease."

"This is the half bathroom. There's just a toilet."

"Boring," Marco whined and hung his head.

"Thanks for the compliment," Jean said, releasing a puff of frustration as he forced Marco to sit still on the toilet seat, "Did you come here from work just to jump my bones?"

The brunette frowned, and Jean knew something must've happened from the way Marco suddenly recoiled from his touch.

Part of him wanted to know why the man was even here. He wanted some answers and felt it was reasonable to ask him general questions, like how he even got there. Another part of him didn't want to upset Marco while he was having a good high. Alcohol had a way of flipping people's emotions like a switch.

"Fuck my job," Marco said, squeezing his eyes shut, "I did not come here to talk about my job."

"Well, what are you here for then?" Jean said, unable to restrain himself.

"What do you think?"

Marco reached for the bottom of Jean's shirt, implying a lot just from squeezing the fabric.

The whole situation was half pissing Jean off and half turning him on, and he really wanted Marco to go to sleep so he could chill and jack off without feeling like he'd taken advantage of the man.

"C'mere, would you?"

Jean felt himself being tugged down to Marco's eye level. He swore as his knees collided with the cold, tile floor.

"Shit!"  
His legs were aching, but Marco didn't seem to notice. His pupils were dilated. His skin was on fire. He was feeling bold, as he took Jean's face in his hands.

"God, you're gorgeous," he whispered, voice cracking, "How did I even end up here? I'm so lucky."

_Why do you have to be drunk to say this shit, you moron?_

From this close, Jean could see every mark on the brunette's face, could admire the curve of his lashes, could feel the scratch of his fingertips.

"You smell like whiskey," he said. The smell was sobering and making the blonde a little ill.

Marco released him, but neither moved away.

"Does it bother you?"

"Marco, this--. This isn't a good idea."

"Why not?"

The man sounded so hurt and confused. Jean's heart was aching. He looked like a lost child.

"Because," Jean began, convincing Marco as much as he was trying to convince himself, "You don't know what you're doing, and I'm starting to feel like I don't know what I'm doing either. It's a bad idea all around, and I want this to be something that we can--. Oh, I don't fucking know. Of course, I want to hook up with you--."

Marco touched him again. This time he was holding his shoulders.

"Then, do it. It's not that hard. This is a mutual thing--."

"It's not mutual! You're fucked up, and you don't know if you really want this. I don't know if you really want this. Don't think that I don't want to--. Oh, god! What the hell am I saying?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Jean looked up at Marco, who was so visibly wasted it made him angry that he'd ever considered getting with his friend while he was like this, slumped over and pale. Jean stood up, disgusted with himself.

"I'm going to get you some water. I'll be right--."

"Oh--."

That was all Marco could manage before he was hurling onto the floor.

"Shit."

"I'm--," Marco gagged as vomit spilled out of him again and again.

Overcoming his sense of smell, Jean grabbed a washcloth and ran his fingers through Marco's hair.

"It's okay."

"Sorry--."

"I'm happy you're here, even if this is nasty as fuck."

"Reiner never--," the brunette choked out.

Jean could catch on and didn't reply. His eyes narrowed, and he wondered how many times the other man had been left like this. He rubbed Marco's back, trying to comfort him.

A half an hour later, the watery puke had been cleaned up, Jean was in a fresh set of pajamas, and Marco was passed out on his bed.

The blonde decided to keep watch on the floor of his bedroom, but he couldn't keep his eyes open. He fell asleep with the image of soft, brown curls and strong hands draped across his sheets.


	7. Uplifted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not enough to stand at a distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, so I was hit with a major feels train the other night, and this is the result of those feels. Things get a little heavy this chapter, so try to bear with it.

The first thing Marco noticed was the heavy weight of his eyelids.

He was slipping slowly out of sleep, no longer drifting freely between dreams and thoughts. Once somewhat aware, he carefully rolled onto his side and gripped the sheets with little to no strength behind his fingertips. His skin felt slick with perspiration and grime. He choked on his spit, feeling weary.

That's when his eyes darted open, and he nearly shot up from the sudden realization that he had no idea how he got into a bed in the first place. His head was pounding. The comforter wrapped around his waist, the scent of vomit and lavender, and the sounds of silence were all unfamiliar. He was too afraid to open his eyes. It was eerie to say the least.

He didn't even know how he'd gotten to wherever he was from the bar. All he could remember was his boss telling him that his "belligerent ass" had been fired and that he'd be lucky to find a place in town that would hire him. At that point, Marco knew he'd been essentially blacklisted from the area. His ex-employer just had that much influence.

"Crap," Marco groaned into his hands.

Dread was beginning to fill him up. He was unemployed, and he had no way to pay rent other than a meager savings that could give him maybe a month off from working. How he would eat or pay bills was beyond him.

Even worse, he'd gotten Armin fired, and the poor guy didn't even know yet. Marco's last order was to tell the blonde before he unknowingly showed up to work the next day, finding someone else wearing _his_ uniform.

After a single ring to Armin's phone, he hung up. Marco couldn't do it. Not last night. He couldn't do it, so he drove home in a panic, ripping through his closet to find his special stash of 18-year-old single malt whiskey and wreaking absolute havoc on his liver.

Ignoring the urge to go back to sleep, Marco decided it was time to wake up and began rubbing away the crust sealing his eyes shut.

"Crap," he repeated, opening his eyes, "Oh, crap."

His vision was blurry, but he recognized the colors of the room.

 _Bathroom inside the bedroom. Twin mattress. Ten pillows too many,_ he thought, feeling his heart rate begin to take off.

He was at Jean's house. He was in Jean's bed.

"Oh, no," he said, as he slipped out of the sheets.

He looked down at his clothes. Other than some missing shoes, he was wearing his work uniform, telling him that he hadn't done anything he'd regret and reminding him that he was covered in dried puke.

He felt dirty and confused. He hated when he got like this; he hated waking up with no recollection of what happened the night before. He'd always had a problem with that.

 _At least, I don't have a hangover,_ he thought, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck.

As soon as he stood up, he stumbled over to the bedroom door.

_Or I'm still drunk._

"Got to get out of here," he said to himself as he slowly passed by the bathroom, "Well, I have time to use to toilet. Here we go."

Marco sighed from the release, shook himself off, and washed his hands all the while thinking of what he'd say when he'd inevitably run into Jean. He couldn't feel it yet, but he knew--. He just knew the impending hangover would be close to unbearable. Last night would not be up for discussion once he was hit with a freight train of nausea and exhaustion.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a few more minutes, squeezing the ceramic sides of the sink. His eyes were red. His face was swollen. His hair was wet with oil and who knows what else.

 _Just do it, Marco,_ he thought and left the bathroom.

Finding his phone on an end table by the bed, he called his old coworker to tell him the bad news. Despite sounding a little shocked at first, Armin seemed very collected about the entire thing, even going so far as to say being fired might have been exactly what he needed. Marco didn't follow up on that, and the two agreed to have a long discussion in person sometime later in the week.

The next step was to leave the comfort of the bedroom.

He was holding his breath as he cautiously searched the house. Jean was nowhere to be found.

"I'll just leave a note," he said, looking for a pen and paper.

He found an old receipt and a sharpie, and it took all of his energy to control the shaking in his hands long enough to write the damn thing. The whole situation was making him jumpy; he didn't know what the blonde's reaction would be to any of it. Whether he would lose his place as a trustworthy person for binge drinking and riding his bike drunk. Marco gritted his teeth. It sounded so stupid to him.

_At least, it wasn't my car._

As he opened the front door, he couldn't help feeling a little remorse under all the relief.

"Shit," he said and shut his eyes.

The sun beaming happily down on him was not a pleasant sensation.

"Hey."

Marco opened his eyes under the cover of his hand and found Jean stretching in his front yard. The man was contorted in some strange variation of peacock pose with only one arm holding him up. He couldn't read the other man's expression and wasn't really sure what to say to the blonde.

Jean continued breathing deeply and closed his eyes.

"Isn't it--," Marco began quietly, unsure if he could make light after what must've been a god awful night, "Isn't it kind of early for handstands?"

Jean grimaced and slowly lowered himself to the ground.

"It's pungu mayurasana," he replied, "Wounded peacock pose."

"Oh."

Jean stood up and walked over to him, keeping himself at arm's length. He didn't say anything.

Marco huffed and squinted as he spoke.

"I don't know how you do that," the brunette said, "It looks like you'd snap your wrist in half if someone coughed on you."

"It's called balance," Jean laughed (much to Marco's relief), "You might want to look into it."

"I'm balanced!"

"Hardly."

Consenting, Marco nodded and walked off Jean's porch. He couldn't help but smile as he looked for his bike.

"I'll give you that," he said, looking around a little erratically, "Well, it's time for me--. Time for me to go home. Bye, Jean--."

Jean turned and crossed his arms.

"Oh, hell no, it's not."

"Oh, you probably think I'm being rude," Marco said, whipping around and immediately feeling dizzy, "Well, I--. I wrote you a note, and it has--."

"Really?"

"What?"

"A note."

"Yes."

"Marco."

"Yes? Jean?"

Jean whistled and cursed something unintelligible under his breath.

"A note ain't going to cut it. Sorry, babe, but you're staying here. Whatever you have to say you can say it to my face."

Marco's head was spinning.

_Is "babe" my new name now? What the hell?_

"In other words--."

"In other words, fuck your note."

"Yeah?" Marco said, picking up his bike, "You can't keep me here though, so--. I'm leaving?"

"If you're getting a ride, that's fine, but you are not getting on that bike."

"And why not?"

"You're still intoxicated, dumbass. I'm not getting a call a half an hour from now saying that you drunkenly swerved into traffic and you either need bail or someone to confirm your remains."

"Wow, you really go from zero to one hundred when you're trying to prove a point."

"You aren't getting on that bike."

"We'll see about--."

"Marco!"

"Fine! Fine. Just no more yelling please."

Jean frowned and walked over to Marco, giving him a sweet look before ripping the bike from his grasp.

"Yes. Yes. My hero," Marco said sarcastically.

The comment made Jean look a little more sympathetic.

"Do you want me to call a taxi for you?"

Marco looked over at Jean, but the other man was staring at the ground and holding his bottom lip between his teeth.

"If that's what you want."

"I--," Jean stuttered out.

Marco bounced a bit on the balls of his feet to relieve some of the tension in the air. He felt like something had changed between them, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was.

_I must have said something last night or **done** something, he thought, chewing at the inside of his cheek._

Jean was acting like some awkward teenager around his high school crush, and it would have been a sensational experience for Marco if he wasn't feeling just as nervous. Still, the blonde seemed like he was having a much more difficult time than ever coming up with something to say which was just odd for someone so typically loudmouthed.

"I don't think you need a taxi. I want--. It'd be cool for you to stay here. I mean it's cool if you stay here, so I--. I can--," Jean blurted out, turning beet red, "Just stay here, asshole."

_Whoa._

"Okay."

Marco slowly followed the other man as he quickly took the bike inside and stashed it in a corner.

"Alright. Alright. Cool," Jean said with a low voice, "So."

"So?"

"Uh. Is there anything you need? Aspirin or some water?"

"Aspirin would be great. Where do you keep it?"

"I'll get it."

"Oh, okay. Thanks."

In response, the man mumbled something unintelligible and nodded, scurrying off to the kitchen area. The brunette looked down, feeling terrible. He wasn't sure if he'd left any messes in the house that needed some attention, but he was clearly making the yoga instructor uncomfortable. He was reconsidering the idea of the taxi, when Jean came rushing back with an arm full of what he dubbed "emergency hangover supplies."

"Okay, so look at this gold mine," Jean said, clearly feeling more confident than before, "I've got your aspirin, three bottles of water, a change of clothes, some tissues, bread, nuts, and bananas--. Oh, and some dried fruit."

 _Angel,_ Marco thought as he stared at the other man.

"The blanket mine too, Mom?"

Jean blushed and dropped most of the goods onto the couch.

"Blanket's mine since you're a little shit," he said, clutching the material dramatically to his chest.

"I'm sorry!" the brunette cried out, "Don't be mad. I love you, Mom!"

Jean scowled with what was likely every fiber of his being, and it took a serious dose of self control to stop his own wicked grin.

"Fuck you," the blonde said, looking truly offended.

Marco would be laughing harder if his stomach wasn't killing him.

"Ow, I--. Ow. Oh. Ow," he whined and wrapped his arms around himself.

"Serves you right," Jean said, checking him over, "Hey, do you want to lay down?"

"No, not just yet. I need to--. I need to, like, take these clothes off first."

Jean glanced to the side and back up at him.

"Want to take a shower?"

Marco chuckled, making himself feel even more ill.

"Thanks for the invite, but I don't think I can keep up with you right now," he said, looking Jean dead in the eye, "Rain check?"

The blonde glared at him with pink tinged cheeks.

"Wasn't offering my services. Try not to drown in there. You absolutely reek by the way."

 _Teasing him is way too fun when he's so awkward about it. He's never like this. What happened to nonstop flirty Jean? I better stop before I piss him off,_ Marco thought, as he picked up Jean's fresh set of clothes for him.

"Oh, talking dirty so early. Tell me how bad I smell, honey. Tell me what a dirty boy I am--."

"God, you are unbearable with a hangover!" Jean spluttered, gently pushing Marco towards the bedroom, "Leave me alone, and go shower for fuck's sake. How you're even this energetic is beyond me."

"Stallions are always ready to go. Full of energy--," he began as Jean shut the bedroom door in his face.

 _How does he always make me feel so good?_ he thought as he stepped into the shower.

Marco sobered up a bit under the spray of the water, knowing the time for constant joking and flirting was coming to an end. He had to apologize to Jean, thank him, figure out what exactly happened the night before, and ultimately explain himself. He really wasn't looking forward to the _I'm concerned about your behavior_ talks from someone he wanted to impress.

_Oh, man._

It was too late, and the worry ate at him. He must have looked like a sloppy drunken mess, completely juvenile and out of control. Tears stung at his eyes from how stupid he felt; he'd lost his chance. Jean clearly had his shit together, and Marco knew he probably wouldn't want to stick around for some unemployed nobody with baggage.

Marco did have other options. The man would likely sleep with him, and his skin tingled from the thought of hard hands running thoughtfully along the contours of his body. Only, he didn't want that anymore. The sex wouldn't be enough. Jean had become his friend, a confidant in such a short amount of time, but he also felt **something** with him. Something real and warm. Something limitless.

It didn't feel toxic or wrong. It felt like there was finally some air in his lungs. Felt like the first brush of sunlight after a far too long winter. It was bizarre to him that the feelings weren't suffocating. It sounded ridiculous, but he was trying to adjust to a very giving idea of love. And even if they didn't work out, Marco wanted to stay in contact with Jean. But if he had really messed up, he knew exactly what would happen.

Temporarily pulling him from his thoughts, the spray was getting hotter, and he hid his face from the stream. As the water stung his back, the brunette _knew_ he had messed up. He racked his brain for an inkling of what happened, but there was nothing. He felt incredibly embarrassed and rubbed at his eyes. No one could see him, but it still bothered him that he was crying at all.

_Just stop it, Marco._

After shutting off the water and collecting himself, Marco dried off, dressed (Jean wore the same size as him), and walked out of the room. He tried his best to look happy.

He was halfway to the couch when the pounding in his head came to the forefront of his skull, stopping him in his tracks.

"You okay?" Jean whispered, but Marco could hear the question like a speaker against his eardrum.

"M' fine."

"I got a trashcan for you, if you need it."

"Thanks."

The other man took that as his cue to stay quiet and watch the brunette as he slugged the rest of the way to the couch. He slumped down, looking completely spent. His face was red and blotchy, making him look even more sickly than before. An hour passed before Marco was retching into the trashcan. After taking three aspirin, he fell into a routine of drinking water, eating a little, vomiting, brushing his teeth, and sleeping. Once he fell asleep for the third time, Jean washed his bed sheets (which smelled undeniably of puke) and emptied the trashcan, much to his disgust. Luckily, it wasn't needed after that.

A few more hours passed, and Jean convinced Marco to relocate to his bedroom.

"You were practically in REM sleep out there," Jean said softly, "You may as well sleep in a bed."

"I don't want to get it dirty a second time."

"I can just wash the sheets, so don't be a little bitch about it."

"Man, you really have a heart of gold underneath that mouth of yours."

"Uh-hum."

Marco felt loads better at this point and shimmied under the covers.

He thought about how so much had happened in the past 24 hours. He had nearly ended up in a bar fight, lost his job, blacked out, woken up in someone else's bed, cried, puked his brains out, and been nursed back to an acceptable standard of coherence. Sure, the experience made him feel incredibly young and foolish, but he had let go for once and that felt like a small victory.

 _Is it okay for this to happen?_ he thought.

He didn't want to inconvenience Jean anymore, and he knew he'd be able to leave his house without a problem. He just didn't want to leave.

_Am I being selfish?_

"We should probably talk," Marco said, sounding defeated.

"Do you want to talk now?"

"Honestly, no."

"So we'll talk later."

"You sure?"

"I'm pretty sure," Jean began, "Not like 70 percent sure. More like 95 percent sure. I'm 95 percent pretty fucking sure."

"Oh, he's snappy, today," Marco groaned.

"I'm tired, okay?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make you mad. You've really done a lot for me, and I don't have the right to--. Well, thank you."

"Marco, you don't make me mad."

"Okay, but, still, thank you. You didn't have to do any of this for me."

"Yeah, well, I wanted to," Jean muttered, "So, let's drop it."

"Dropped. For now."

"Good."

They both knew how quickly the mood would sour once they got onto the topic of more serious matters. Neither of them were up for it.

"Your sheets smell like lavender," Marco said, voice muffled by the comforter.

"Everything I own smells like lavender," the blonde said after a sigh, "Except for my cologne."

"You don't sound like you like lavender."

"It's okay. I don't mind it."

Marco slipped the sheets off of his torso, and Jean coughed back a laugh at his messy appearance.

"How can you just _mind_ a fragrance that consumes your house?"

"I don't know. It just smells like my home. I guess."

Jean sat on the floor and smiled up at him. Marco gestured for him to stand up.

"Are you wearing your cologne now?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Sit next to me, so I can smell it."

Jean stared at him for a few seconds before slowly standing and sitting on the edge of his bed. With slumped over shoulders, his body sunk into the mattress, hinting at his level of fatigue.

_His cologne isn't very strong, but it's nice._

"It's like--," Marco started, taking two obnoxiously obvious whiffs, "It's like a musky forest and an orange decided to duke it out."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

Marco took a deep breath before answering.

"It smells like you, so I like it."

Jean shifted a little, and the bed squeaked in protest.

"I, um--. Thanks."

They were silent for a few minutes before Jean spoke again.

"So, can you--. Can you really smell it from over there?" he said, sounding hesitant.

"Not that well."

"Oh."

Marco leaned over then, tired of their games, and placed his arms around the other man.

"Is this okay?" he said, speaking quietly into the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm not some bitch," Jean protested, but he was weak in his delivery and tensed up.

"So hug me back."

And Jean did, albeit a little shakily at first, before he crushed into Marco and dug his fingers into his back.

"It's like I'm wrestling a bear," Marco laughed, pressing into the other man a little more.

"Shut up," Jean bit back, squeezing him a little tighter in response.

Their position wasn't the most comfortable one with the blonde awkwardly twisting his spine, so Marco pulled back a little and laid down. The other man missed a beat before he quickly followed suit.

"My bed was not made for two grown ass men," Jean laughed, sounding a little breathless, "I'm practically on top of you."

"We'll make it work."

They were both face to face, and Marco watched the moment unravel as Jean's hand traveled its way up his chest and onto his bottom lip. The brunette mirrored the action, letting his hand fall behind the back of the other's head. His senses were overwhelmed with the thick smell of burnt wood and fresh pine, as he pressed forward and kissed him. They both groaned from that first heavy contact, and Jean eagerly rolled on top of him, inhaling sharply when a pair of hands found his hips. The smaller man tasted like mint and faintly of coffee, and he found himself diving in, enraptured by the feeling of a soft mouth against his skin. Marco loved it. He loved the way Jean responded so earnestly, making the smallest of sounds whenever he squeezed his fingertips or grazed his tongue against the back of his teeth. He was shocked to find that they almost melded together perfectly with the exception of a few expected snags.

"Don't use your tongue like a spear," Marco breathed before biting the side of his neck.

"Ah! Fuck. Yes, sir," Jean gasped, pulling him back up to his mouth.

He was just the right amount of aggressive, bold enough to take chances and respectful enough to hold back. Marco felt wanted, like he was doing everything right to turn the other man on, and that was a powerful thing. The blonde was surprisingly modest too and didn't get frustrated with his advice. He was a fast learner after all.

It was incredibly warm, and the heavy touches washed over him in waves. They were pouring everything they had into pleasing each other, and Marco felt the energy surge between them. It was just them when they opened their eyes and pressed their foreheads together. It was just them when they closed their eyes and stirred each other up over and over again.

It was dark outside by the time they separated.

"Holy shit," Jean said falling back onto the sheets.

"Yeah," Marco said.

He felt winded as he started to stand up.

"No," Jean complained, trying to pulling him back to the bed.

"I've got to check my phone. I need to tell my roommate that I'm not dead."

Jean nodded, stood up, and headed over to the bathroom.

"Oh my god," he shouted from the mirror, "You tore up my neck!"

"Oops, sorry."

"You aren't sorry, fucker."

"I'm not."

 _I feel a little bad,_ Marco thought as he grabbed his phone from the end table, _Six missed calls. 8 text messages. All from Annie, Connie, and--._

"Shit," Marco hissed.

"What is it? You finally get a conscience for attacking me?"

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's Reiner."

Jean came out of the bathroom, and Marco wanted to laugh because the man really did look like he'd been mauled. Other than that, he just looked pissed off.

" _And?_ "

"Well," Marco said, dropping his phone on the bed and wringing his hands together, "How do you feel about some dinner for four?"


End file.
